


momentary synergy

by benzedrine



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst?, Friendship/Love, Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, fluff?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-04
Updated: 2017-09-04
Packaged: 2018-12-24 00:25:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12001086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/benzedrine/pseuds/benzedrine
Summary: Slowly, and then all at once.





	momentary synergy

**Author's Note:**

> this is very soft. i rarely write things like this because i find misery far easier to relate to and draw from but Anyway. i hope you enjoy this tiny lil piece. all faults are my own. also, for reference, my draco malfoy can always speak french and my harry is always bisexual and brown, thanks. hope you enjoy!
> 
> edit (11/11/17): this fic was previously titled could never be heaven after a brand new song, but in light of the accusations against jesse lacey, i decided i'd rather not have any work of mine out there on the internet associated with work of his. the new title has been taken from an arctic monkeys song, and none of the actual content of this fic has changed.

The year had started differently, with quiet apologies and tear tracked cheeks bitten by the cool autumn breezes. It started with tentative truces and uncomfortable silences and subtle charms woven into robes to protect against hexes and jinxes and curses, fists and teeth and kicks to the shins.

It was nothing like Draco had expected, and as close to everything he had ever wanted.

He had known it was coming, had foreseen it in the easiness of Harry’s smile over a mug of tea, in the way the sunlight reflected impossibly brighter off of his brown skin, in the fierce, heated way his eyes gleamed as he chastised a younger student for trying to attack Draco or Pansy or Blaise or Greg or any of the other returning Slytherins, in the way ‘Malfoy’ sometimes slipped out in wondrous reverence as though it were a prayer or a blessing instead of the name of a family associated with centuries of hatred and cruelty and prejudice. He had felt it for years, a deep, dark desire in the pit of his belly, masked by and mixed with and _tamed_ by anger and something close to hatred.

But it had never been like _this_.

It had never been lazy mornings studying and drinking coffee in an empty classroom, it had never been sharing cigarettes after slow, sleepy sex, never been Draco’s stomach doing more flips and dives than he himself had ever done in a Quidditch match, just at the sight of Harry’s bleary-eyed, early morning yawns, never been so scary and exciting and _everything_ all together. Somehow years of fighting could never compare to the sense of ease and familiarity and love Draco felt just by thinking of Potter.

It was not easy being in love with Harry Potter, not easy hearing him scream and thrash in the night, not easy seeing him brood and sulk and sneer, not _easy_ hearing that laugh he so adored turn dark and bitter and angry. It was not easy but it was worth it.

It was worth every _I got so hard watching you fly_ and _it’s black, two sugars, just how you like it_ and _you smell so good_. It was worth every heated encounter in some out of the way alcove in the castle, worth every fast, furious fuck after a Quidditch match, worth every soft smile and touch and laugh Draco could drag out of Harry. It was worth every dangerous beat of Draco’s heart as he thought about throwing out those three words, casual and easy, like what they had, before changing his mind out of fear and nerves and dread.

*

“I think the French got it right, you know,” Potter murmured, his fingers still tangled in Draco’s hair, twisting and massaging and stroking. “Oh?” Draco heard himself reply, “And how’s that?”

It was getting harder these days, harder to separate Potter from Harry.

“I dunno, I mean, you said, right, you told me that in French you say ‘the little death’, yeah, instead of, like, coming, or whatever.” Draco loved nothing and no one more than a flustered Harry Potter.

“Well, it doesn’t _always_ mean that, but your point?” He could feel himself smiling, his expression a treacherous betrayal of everything he tried so hard to keep locked up within himself.

“Well, I don’t know, it’s just, I have died. And an orgasm is nothing like that, but it kind of makes sense to me. It’s just, being and doing things with you sometimes makes me feel like I’m at the edge of a precipice, or like, I don’t know how to explain this, but like I’ve had the smallest taste of you and you bring me back. I don’t know, I mean it makes no sense, but in a way, it sort of does. Sorry, I’m babbling again. You know me,” he says with that easy grin, that soft crinkle to his eyes, looking every bit the saviour he was.

“Je t’aime.” It slips out before he even realises what he’s said, feeling the hot flush spreading up over his cheekbones to his ears, and then he’s grabbing his clothes and running, running, running, before the consequences of his words can catch up with him.

*

It’s a couple of days before Draco next sees Harry, and it’s entirely due to faults of his own. He had no need for an invisibility cloak; unlike Potter, he was perfectly good at hiding from his mistakes.

*

“Hey, Malfoy – Draco,” he hears, “Hey, wait!”

He turns around, trying his best to summon what could pass for a withering sneer, “What, Potter?”

“I didn’t, I didn’t know,” he starts. He’s trying desperately to fix his hair (Draco wished he wouldn’t), after running to catch up with Draco. Potter might be the Boy Who Lived, but Draco still had a few inches on him and was not above using them to his advantage.

“I never would have guessed, I mean, I had to ask Hermione for all sorts of help, and you would not _believe_ how difficult that was, what with my subpar French pronunciation, and her own lack of knowledge with regards to the finer points of French grammar, as she put it. It took the two of us an hour just to figure out how to _spell_ it, can you believe? But, look, my point is I feel the same way, I just never thought that _you_ felt like this, I never would have -”

Draco cuts him off, his heart pounding harryharryharry as he twists one hand in Potter’s thick hair, the other sliding to his jaw, his mouth pressed firmly against Potter’s. It’s unrefined and inelegant and by far the worst kiss they’d ever shared, but it was so _them._ So fierce and fragile and free all at once and he loved it. He loved _Harry_.

“Say it,” Draco said, pulling back slightly from the clash of his teeth against Harry’s, “Please, say it. For me.”

Harry smiled up at him, his thumb smoothing over Draco’s cheekbone.

“I love you.”

Draco smiles back. It feels like coming home.

**Author's Note:**

> kudos and comments are much appreciated. :)


End file.
